


Permission

by dragonimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonimp/pseuds/dragonimp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed is captured as a prisoner of war, and ends up as the personal hostage of the field commander, one Roy Mustang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permission

**Author's Note:**

> This is the original stand-alone version that was written for the Help Haiti auction on LJ. It was later rewritten slightly as a chapter of Collared.

Ed gripped the edge of the bag with his teeth and fumbled the grimy, sweaty uniform in, one-handed. Desert heat and wool were not a good combination, but of course the military was too stupid to realize that. Grimacing, he gathered the top together and flung the bag toward the door, where it would get picked up for the laundry. He was just glad—and a little surprised—that he didn't have to wash the thing himself. It seemed like the perfect duty to give a war prisoner.

He worked his fingers under the metal collar he was forced to wear, pressing them against the raw skin of his neck. He was still pissed at himself for getting caught. And if that weren't bad enough, he'd been picked by the field commander to be a "personal hostage"—in other words, a slave. Just one of the military's many fucked-up practices.

He heard splashing from the next room that meant the commander in question was getting into the bath, and scowled. He was expected to attend to his military "master" at these times, and he hated it. It wasn't the menial fetch-and-cary tasks that that got on his nerves, it was being forced to interact. The man seemed to take a particular pleasure in mocking and teasing him and trying to rile him up. And as tempting as it was, he couldn't take out his annoyance by punching in that pretty-boy face, not without serious consequences. Maybe he'd do that just before he escaped. He still had to get his arm back first. That part had him stumped.

Even through his annoyance, Ed knew he'd been lucky. Incredibly lucky. The last field commander had taken Rosé as a hostage, and she'd come back mute—and pregnant. That son-of-a-bitch had been transfered out before Ed had gotten a chance to ram his automail down his throat, but he was still toying with the idea of hunting him down.

The current commander, some celebrated, state-trained alchemist named Mustang, was different. So far, he was much less brutal in his battle tactics, and not at all cruel in his handling of prisoners. As irritating as he was, he treated Ed like a human being, and made sure the other prisoners of war were treated that way as well. If his tactic was to throw everyone off and then take advantage of the confusion, it might be working, but so far it seemed he simply had standards.

And that was perhaps the most annoying thing of all, because it meant that Ed couldn't hate him.

The teen hovered in the bathroom doorway, deliberately averting his eyes from the lean form reclining in the water. Mustang was more attractive than any military git had a right to be. Forget attractive; he was dead sexy and he knew it. In the short time he'd been here, Ed had watched him flirt and play up his looks with both women and men. It was a kind of manipulation that seemed to be second nature to him. Even his hostage wasn't exempt—Ed could swear the man was trying to seduce him. He was sure it was some ploy to get him to drop his guard. The problem was, try as he might to ignore him, Mustang was still managing to get under his skin.

Hatred would've made such a nice shield.

Mustang waved a hand toward the main room. "Fetch me a drink . . . half a glass from the bottle on the top shelf."

Ed turned to do as he was told, keeping his opinions to himself.

He thunked the glass and the bottle of liquor on top of the small cabinet, then hooked his arm around the bottle and braced it against his side to work off the cork. He was getting better at maneuvering things one-handed, but that only annoyed him more; he didn't want to get used to this, he wanted his fucking arm back.

Ed banged the bottle back into the cabinet and snatched the half-full glass before stalking back to the bathroom. Treated well or not, he was sick of being at someone's beck and call. He needed to get out of here, back to Al and back to where he could do some good. It wasn't like this was their town, but neither of them felt like they could leave—not after the part they'd played in starting this mess.

"You know, if you break one of those bottles, you'll have to pay for it." Mustang smirked up at him, one arm draped casually on the side of the tub.

Ed stared at him. "I'm a prisoner, I don't have any money."

"There's more than one kind of currency."

Wet fingers caressed the back of his hand before Mustang slid the glass from his grip. Cheeks burning, Ed fixed his glare on the bastard's face, refusing to look into the water. That first night, he'd looked. It was even more tempting now, knowing what he'd see. But he didn't want this bastard to think he had _that_ sort of power over him.

Mustang leaned against the back of the tub and sipped his drink, meeting his slave's eyes with his lips curled just slightly at one edge. "Care to join me? The water rationing won't allow us to fill the tub a second time."

Ed shifted, glancing away. "Um. . . ."

"You must be sweaty from all the work you did today." Fingers brushed against his arm and Ed jumped, his head snapping back around. "But it's up to you," Mustang finished, his hand lingering on Ed's wrist for a moment before withdrawing to the tub.

Ed bit his cheek to keep himself from blurting some half-formed thought and stared, trying to figure out the other man's game. As a prisoner of war he had no rights save those his "master" decided to give him. If Mustang wanted to he could simply order him to bend over and take it. He didn't have a problem ordering Ed around any other time, but in anything that came close to intimate he was constantly giving him a choice. Tease him and back off. He desired Ed, that was clear, but he'd never even directly mentioned sex. What was the point in trying to seduce what was technically already his?

But if he desired Ed and wouldn't take him, that gave Ed some measure of power. If he could play this right.

"Yeah . . . yeah, okay."

If Mustang was surprised, he didn't show it. But he didn't look smug, either, at least not too much. He just sat back and sipped his drink, smiling like a cat who'd just stolen a prime sunning spot. The young man tugged on the laces of his tunic and watched the man watch him, trying to decide if this was a big mistake.

Ed turned away as he pulled the garment over his head. This was not the time to start blushing, he had to be in control. His shorts and underwear quickly joined the tunic, and he braced his hand on the side of the tub.

Mustang shifted his legs to make room, and Ed paused. He hadn't considered just where he'd be sitting. It was a good-sized tub, but it wasn't _that_ big. Steeling himself and carefully not looking at the tub's other occupant, he climbed in.

Ed closed his eyes and almost moaned in contentment as he sank into the hot water. He hadn't had a proper bath in ages. The most he'd been able to do for weeks was scrub himself down with a rag down at the sink.

A hand touched his back and he flinched. Mustang smoothed water over his skin, working back and forth across his shoulders, slowly coaxing his tense muscles to relax. By the time a stream of water trickled over his hair, Ed had almost gotten used to the attention.

Mustang filled and emptied the small pitcher a couple more times, cupping his other hand to guide the water away from the young man's face. "If you move back a bit, I'll wash your hair for you."

Ed scooted back, until the other man's knees were on either side of his hips. He still couldn't tell if this was genuine kindness or a ploy, but his hair _had_ been feeling gross. Deft fingers worked their way into his hair, alternately rubbing and scratching at his scalp, and Ed found himself leaning back. The man sure knew how to use his hands.

A ribbon of foam escaped down his cheek and Mustang chased it with a finger. "Close your eyes," he said, his voice soft and low. "I wouldn't want to get soap in them."

"Uh-huh." Ed didn't point out that they already were.

Palms smoothed over the crown of his head, stroking his hair back, and then fingers burrowed in at the nape of his neck. They rubbed in firm circles, slowly moving up behind his ears, then his temples. Ed thought he could very easily get used to this.

The hands pulled away and Ed almost leaned back after them.

"Keep your eyes closed."

Ed scrunched his eyes and bent his head forward, as Mustang poured several pitchers of water over his hair.

"You have such beautiful hair," the older man remarked as he finger-combed the wet strands, pulling them back from Ed's face and wiping away the remains of the shampoo. "It's a shame for it to be so dirty."

Ed snorted, but he was feeling too good from the scalp massage to work up any real annoyance. "You try washing your hair in the sink with only one hand."

Mustang chuckled. "Maybe if your arm wasn't such a dangerous weapon, you would be allowed to have it."

Ed had created that blade and he could just as easily uncreate it, but admitting that would be admitting too much.

He straightened up as Mustang smoothed some sort of cream into his hair. Even if the man did have an agenda, it felt good to be fussed over. "Like it matters. Wouldn't do any good to kill _you_ , military'd just send some other creep here to take your place."

"Mm. The military is efficient like that."

Truthfully, Ed didn't want Mustang gone. Any other field commander would probably be as bad as the first one. He still wasn't entirely certain, but Mustang seemed to have morals.

The hands pulled back, and then a washcloth was rubbed against his back, working away the collected sweat and dust and grime as well as any remaining tension. Ed was going positively limp under the ministrations.

Mustang swept his hair over his shoulder, and nudged that hateful collar higher up on his neck. "This must chafe." The words were soft, and seemed a natural accompaniment to the washcloth that pressed against his neck.

"'Course it chafes," was Ed's retort. But the bite in his words was small.

"Mm."

The way he dabbed at the abraded skin was almost tender. He wiped away the grit and grime with the utmost care, while his other hand held the collar out of the way, one finger absently stroking behind his ear. Ed arched his neck, shifting as Mustang worked his way to the side, and then the front. He hooked his hand around to press the washcloth against the young man's throat, resting his arm against the automail port. Ed swallowed.

Mustang caressed the edge of his ear. "I am sorry for this," he said. "I've never liked the practice."

"Why? Makes it easier to control prisoners, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

Ed wasn't sure how to take such an enigmatic response.

Mustang switched hands, and this time when the arm slid against his shoulder Ed could feel it. The weight, the warmth, the texture of his skin, the water that collected between them and ran down his chest—he was hyper aware of all of it. He swallowed again, feeling his throat move against the washcloth.

As if in response, Mustang's thumb brushed his neck, just at the edge of where the collar now hovered. The touch lingered for a moment, and then withdrew. He let his hand rest on Ed's shoulder as lowered the metal band. "But that's not for us to question."

Ed had assumed that once the difficult to reach places were taken care of, Mustang would relinquish the washcloth, but instead he rubbed it against the soap and ran it down Ed's arm. It skimmed down the whole length, starting at his shoulder and plunging into the water to reach his hand. It lingered there, lacing their fingers together with the cloth between them for a moment before sliding away again, caressing the sensitive area. The other hand was lightly tracing his spine, as if marking his vertebra.

Ed could feel his face heat up, and he suddenly realized just how out of his league he was. He had no idea how to respond. Should he encourage this, or make Mustang earn it somehow? Even as this thought struck him, the washcloth ran up the underside of his arm, and then down his side, all the way down to his hip. A large part of him wanted to turn into the touch. But would that be him using the other man, or letting himself be used?

After lingering for a moment, the washcloth traveled back up, and hooked around to his stomach. The water shifted as Mustang leaned forward to flatten his hand against the young man's sternum, as his other hand slid into the water, coming to rest at his waist. It was almost like being embraced. Ed could feel the man's breath against his wet skin, hot and whiskey scented.

His body chose this moment to react. He tensed; his first impulse was to spring from the bath, but not only would that make his developing situation ridiculously apparent, it would shift the balance of power completely away from him.

The washcloth retreated to his side and a thumb stroked his waist. He supposed it was supposed to be soothing, but under the circumstances, it was really not helping. "Do you want me to stop?" Mustang asked.

"No!" Ed surprised himself by saying. "No . . ." he repeated, almost to himself. "I don't want to you stop."

"Neither do I," the older man purred, running the washcloth down his hip and along his thigh.

Ed—gave up. Power plays and who was using whom seemed meaningless. It felt so good to be touched that he just wanted more. Cautiously he leaned back, and when the other man tugged him closer, he let himself be moved.

Mustang leaned around him, running the washcloth up and down the automail leg just as if it were flesh. Ed supposed it was as dirty as the rest of him, but the sensuous movements seemed out of place on the unfeeling metal. Watching it, though, was having a strange effect on his breathing. Not to mention other parts of his anatomy. He bent his leg to make it more accessible, and Mustang drew a finger along the steel calf, in a way that would have made his right leg jump.

After exploring his knee, Mustang slid his hand along the inside of his thigh, and the sudden change from metal to flesh made Ed gasp. He bit his lip. The hand continued to make its way up his leg, coming teasingly close to his groin before the washcloth was switched to the other hand. This time he could feel the nubbly texture of the washcloth and the smooth, almost satiny feel of skin against skin. He bend this leg, as well. Mustang's chest was pressed against his back, his nose against his ear, as he reached around to run his hand down Ed's shin. Ed relaxed back against him, and he felt lips against the shell of his ear.

A small voice was warning him that he was playing right into the soldier's hands. He must want him pliant and agreeable and was using sex to get him there. Ed didn't have an argument to that—but it felt too good to want to stop.

The washcloth skimmed up his leg and around his hip, then up. The trailing edge brushed against his arousal as it traveled along his stomach and he whimpered.

"Shh. . . ." Mustang leaned back, and Ed let himself be pulled along. "I'd like to make you feel good," he murmured, breath warm on his ear. The washcloth rubbed against his nipple and Ed sucked his breath in. "Will you let me?"

"Yes—fuck—touch me already!"

The other man chuckled, draping the washcloth over the side of the tub. "I didn't want to presume."

But Ed was his prisoner—his slave in all but name. Mustang had a right use him any way he wanted.

"Here." The older man shifted him, so that Ed was leaning against his thigh with his head resting on his arm. "I want to watch," he explained, smirking down at the smaller man.

Ed's gaze was caught by the dark eyes. Mustang was an enigma most of the time, but right now all Ed could see was desire and an intensity of focus—all directed at him. It was more than a little overwhelming, but it was such a refreshing change that Ed wanted to cling to it like a lifeline. Secrets and double-talk were the standard on both sides of this uprising.

Mustang flattened his hand against Ed's chest, then slid it downward. Ed's breath quickened in anticipation and the other man smirked, the expression amused and—if Ed could believe what he was seeing—fond. He didn't get much time to analyze it, though, because the hand had reached its destination.

Mustang was exploring him, there was no other term for it. The fingers traveled up and down his length and over his balls, cupping him and stroking him and taking a moment to tease back his foreskin but never doing quite _enough_. Ed gripped Mustang's leg and tried to buck, but his position was less than ideal for it. He arched his head and let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a whine, the water sloshing with his writhing. Just when he was getting ready to do something desperate—though he wasn't sure if it would be taking himself in hand or biting the other man—Mustang gave him a squeeze.

Ed went still, with a sharp intake of breath that was _not_ a squeak.

"Shh," Mustang soothed again. "I'm not planning to tease you for long." True to his words his hand tunneled around Ed's shaft, the pressure alone enough to make him groan. "I needed to get your measure so I would know how best to pleasure you."

Ed wasn't listening. The hand was moving now, settling into a nice rhythm and applying pressure at just the right time, the warm water easing the friction until it was tantalizing. He arched his back, his eyes closed, and moaned. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt his good. Jerking himself off on the sly just couldn't compare. He didn't last long—but after all that teasing, that was only to be expected.

Once spent, he sagged against Mustang's side and tried to catch his breath. That had been . . . intense.

A hand, dripping with water, stroked away the strands of hair clinging to his face. Ed cracked an eye open, and found Mustang smiling down at him. Not smirking—actually smiling.

"U-um. . . ." Ed shifted, then froze, realizing just what had been pressing against his hip. A glance down into the water confirmed his suspicions.

"Well, you can hardly blame me," Mustang chuckled, caressing his jaw, "after a display like that."

Ed felt his face go scarlet.

He scooted away, just far enough that he could twist and face the other man. "You want to fuck me." It wasn't a question or an accusation.

"Mm. . . ." Mustang ran a finger along the edge of his empty port. "Not the wording I would use, but an accurate statement."

"And if I say 'no'?"

"Then we won't."

Ed's jaw worked as he stared at the man who currently controlled his fate. Just the fact that he asked could be considered disobedience. He reached up to his collar, shoving his fingers between the metal and his skin and gripping. But Mustang has said _we_. Not ' _I_ won't.' "What is with you and the asking?" he blurted. "If you wanted, you could just take." The man clearly did want him, the proof of that was right there between his legs. It wasn't as if Ed could stop him—not without consequences.

Mustang dribbled some water on his shoulder, so that it trickled down along the edge of the port, and then chased it with his finger. "I ask because I want to ask."

"Even if it means I might refuse you?"

"Yes." Mustang covered Ed's hand with his own, and gently coaxed his fingers loose. "Even so."

As Ed stared, Mustang took his hand in between his, cupping water between them and massaging his palm, ignoring what had to be a demanding hard-on. Ed considered for a long moment, then pulled his hand away.

Mustang let him go. He let him go, and made no move to reach for him. Ed got the feeling that if he left now, Mustang wouldn't press him. That's what finally decided him.

the water sloshed as he surged forward. His aim was off and his lips hit the edge of the other man's mouth, but he quickly repositioned, bracing himself against the back of the tub. Mustang's arms wrapped around him, drawing him in, and Ed relaxed against him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"So fuck me, then," he said against the older man's mouth. "Fuck me. I'm letting you."

Mustang breathed a "Thank you," before engaging him with another kiss.

Was this a mistake? Was this letting the enemy win? Quite possibly. But as Ed rubbed his thigh against the other man's cock and felt his own groin tightening, he didn't care. He wanted this.

Mustang's hands stroked up and down his back, pressing him close. One arm slid around his waist, lifting him slightly. "Here." The other hand slid down his thigh, nudging his legs apart. Ed got the hint and they shifted, rearranging their legs so that Ed's were on the outside.

He sat back against Mustang's thighs while the other man searched the nearby shelf, no doubt looking for the jar of bath oil. Ed flattened his hand against the pale chest with its light dusting of dark hair, trying to think through his reawakened desire. "Is this why you chose me?"

Mustang glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "You mean, did I pick you as a hostage because I wanted to fuck you? No."

"It's okay if you did." Because he had asked, instead of taking.

Mustang smiled, one hand cupping his hip and urging him onto his knees. "It isn't why."

The fingers of his other hand curled around the back of his thigh, traveling up and back until they found what they were looking for. Ed bent forward to provide more room, resting his head on the other man's shoulder, shifting until he was comfortable. His breath caught as fingers pressed against his opening, gentle but insistent. Mustang rubbed his other hand up and down the young man's spine, waiting.

Ed took a deep breath, and relaxed bit by bit, letting the caress draw away his tension. Mustang eased first one finger inside, and then a second, making soothing noises as he worked them deeper. Ed tensed for a brief moment, pressing his face into Mustang's neck, then relaxed. It seemed the most natural thing to do.

Liquid fire shot up Ed's spine and he groaned, arching his back and pressing against the fingers. Chuckling, Mustang stroked him _there_ again, then spread his fingers.

"S'fine, that's fine," Ed moaned into his neck. The fingers were just a teaser—he wanted the main event. "Y'can get on with it."

"If I rush this, I might hurt you," he said, twisting his fingers and spreading them once more, stretching him in a way that sent little slivers of pleasure across his skin. "And I wouldn't want that."

"Fu-uuck. Don't tell me you're saying you're so big—that—" Ed dropped his hand down into the water and found the other man's crotch.

Mustang jumped, his fingers twitching and making Ed hum with pleasure, as Ed's hand closed around him. He smirked as he ran his hand along the man's length. It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of, but his ego didn't need the encouragement. "Nothing I can't handle."

Mustang made a noise that was probably supposed to sound unimpressed. "I suppose your field of experience is so very vast."

Ed straightened, still smirking. "It's enough."

There was a challenge in his expression as he smirked back, sliding his fingers free and gripping the young man's hips. "Well, then. If you think you're up to it. . . ."

Ed scooted forward until he was in position. "Oh, I'm ready."

"Let's see, then," he said, his voice husky.

He lined them up with one hand and guided Ed's hips with the other. Ed lowered himself onto the waiting shaft eagerly, gasping at the little rush of water and gritting his teeth at the burn. He probably could have done with a little more stretching, but at the same time it felt so _good_. He might have a different opinion tomorrow when he woke up sore, but right now he savored the feeling.

After settling himself down, he bared his teeth in a fierce grin. Mustang was watching him with his eyebrows drawn down in apparent concern, and one edge of his mouth twitched up. "Don't worry," Ed said. "It's not like you're gonna _overwhelm_ me."

"Good." Mustang squeezed his hips, then moved his hands to rest on the younger man's thighs.

And waited.

With a start Ed realized that Mustang was letting him take the lead. He could be directing the young man, or shifting their positions enough that he could dominate. But he was putting Ed in control.

Tentatively, he rose up on his knees, then sank back down. Mustang made an appreciative noise, squeezing his thighs. Encouraged, he rose and fell a bit more vigorously, smirking at the little hitching breath he got for his efforts.

Ed braced himself on the other man's shoulder, shifting his angle until Mustang's cock grazed that particular spot inside of him, and quickly found a rhythm of rise and fall, rise and fall. Occasionally he'd grind down or linger at the top, just to see what reactions he could get. It was heady, having that much power.

Mustang's hand slid up his thigh and wrapped around his cock, and Ed groaned. " _Fuck_ , yes."

The older man smirked, stroking him as Ed reached the top of his run. "Did you think I would neglect you?"

Ed empaled himself hard, encouraged not by the words but by the breathless tone. "Better fucking not."

In reality, Mustang didn't owe him a thing. He had no obligation other than to provide his hostage with "reasonable care," a nebulous concept at best. But at that moment, riding the older man with the water sloshing around them, Ed wasn't thinking about that. The give and take seemed only natural. The give and take that meant that, even after he came, he kept up his pace until the man beneath him tensed, gripping Ed's thighs as he thrust up one final time.

Just as it seemed natural to let himself be gathered up to Mustang's chest. He sagged against his shoulder and closed his eyes, feeling the other man's heartbeat and his breath ghosting across his shoulder. The older man was cradling him, one thumb softly stroking his shoulder blade. As if Ed was something precious. He knew he shouldn't be fooled; he was still a prisoner, and was most likely being humored only because Mustang got something out of it. But it was . . . nice.

After a long moment, Mustang's arm slid down to his waist and urged him up. Ed hissed as they disengaged, and a hand rubbed his hip. "Here." One hand pulled away, and then he felt the washcloth against his upper thighs, gently wiping away the remnants of their actions. He flinched as it pressed against his recently abused skin, and Mustang rubbed his back, making shushing sounds.

"M'fine," Ed assured him.

"I'm sure you are."

The hands slid down to his hips, and Ed straightened. The older man looked . . . a little smug, maybe, but mostly just pleased. Contented.

"The water's starting to get cold," Mustang commented.

"Oh. Uh—yeah." Ed glanced down, then to the side, not sure what he was looking for. "I, uh . . . I guess we should get out."

"Mm."

The young man drew back, then turned, and awkwardly climbed over the side, bracing himself until his feet were square on the tile.

Turing to the nearby stand, Ed hesitated; he'd lain a towel out earlier, but only one. Even as tolerant as Mustang was, Ed couldn't imagine he'd be happy to have to use a wet towel, but neither did he think he'd want his hostage dripping all over the bedroom.

The decision was taken out of his hands as Mustang lifted the towel, and Ed sighed internally. He didn't relish the idea of being the second person to use the towel, but at least this way he wouldn't fuck up by doing the wrong thing.

Leaning over the side of the tub, Mustang shook the towel out, and wordlessly wrapped it around Ed's shoulders. His hands lingered against the young man's chest in an almost-embrace before he settled back into the water.

"Um. . . ." Ed clutched at the towel, darting a quick glance at his "master" before turning away. "I'll, um—I'll go get another towel."

A mild "Thank you," was all the man said as Ed darted to the main room.

  



End file.
